


Daughter of Dragons

by FalconHonour



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik, The Immortals - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHonour/pseuds/FalconHonour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Captain Sarrasri and Captain Salmalin are thrown together at the Battle of the Nile, they have no idea just how life-changing that moment will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sivvus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvus/gifts).



> This story started life as a birthday gift for the wonderful sivvus and I was surprisingly happy with the way it turned out, so I thought I might show it off to the rest of you too. It’s a Tamora Pierce/Naomi Novik crossover, so a long way from my usual Tudor fare… Don’t worry, Lionesses is next on the list after exams are over at the end of the week… But please do let me know what you think, I’m posting this to hopefully give me something other than revision to read!

**I**

The Grand Chevalier came out of nowhere.

Or rather, it came out of the flash of light that had blinded Moonsword, disorientating the Fleur-de-Nuit enough to prevent him from dropping to avoid a collision.

“Mithros!” Numair swore, as the heavier dragon body-slammed his mount, knocking Moonsword sideways with enough force to send him skittering through the air, despite his furious efforts to hold his position.

Numair was knocked off his feet by the impact and for a moment, lay stunned, all the air leaving his lungs in a single anguished exhalation.

A keening howl of pain snapped him back to himself. He was on his feet in an instant. “Moonsword!”

Scrambling down the charcoal back with the wonderfully familiar blue-black stripes searing their way along it, Numair was alarmed to see that Moonsword was listing sharply in the air and losing height rapidly to boot. Their engagement with the by now long gone Grand Chevalier must have left deeper marks than Numair had realised.

This thought had no sooner gone through his head than his second-in-command, Flight Lieutenant George Cooper, came scrambling up the wingstraps to meet him. “Sir! Those French bastards have incapacitated us! They've severed three of Moonsword’s wing tendons!”

“Show me!” Numair ordered, climbing after his lieutenant faster than he had hitherto believed possible.

A single glance at the damaged wing – hanging crookedly from Moonsword’s body at an angle that Numair would have said was impossible had he not been seeing it with his own eyes – brought a stream of invectives spilling from his lips. “By the Trinity and the Goddess!”

“Sir,” Cooper’s hand was on his shoulder, stilling his rage with cool, placatory reason, “We can’t stay in the air.”

Numair nodded, blinking back tears of rage. “Send up the distress flares,” he ordered, leaning against Moonsword’s scales as he spoke.

The by now visibly weakening dragon turned his head with an effort and Numair gave him what he hoped was an encouraging and reassuring smile. “All will be well, dear heart,” he whispered, patting the flank he was leaning against. His words were lost in the hubbub of the battle, but he and Moonsword had served together for over a decade, ever since Numair had harnessed the newborn Fleur-de-Nuit at the age of sixteen. They no longer needed words to communicate.

“Salmalin! What appears to be the problem?” Captain Harcourt, the head of their formation, appeared over their right shoulder, shouting into a speaking trumpet to ensure she was heard over the din of the battle.

“Severed tendons from that bronze Grand Chevalier! We need to land, now!” Cooper roared back, summarising the situation as succinctly as he could. Captain Harcourt nodded in acknowledgement and turned her head to order her own crew to signal urgently to someone behind, before bellowing into her speaking trumpet once more.

“Cooper! Land on the nearest dragon transport as soon as you’ve let your Captain off. Salmalin, prepare to board Skysong as soon as Captain Sarrasri gets here. Sarrasri, for God’s sake, hurry up!”

This last was directed at the slender figure crouched low over the back of a grey-blue Longwing. The momentary distraction meant Captain Harcourt only heard Numair’s cry of horror rather than seeing the look of anguish that crossed his face. To leave Moonsword when the latter was so critically injured? It was as though she’d told him to cut off his own arm.

He made to protest, but Moonsword was dropping fast and, in the heat of battle, Captain Harcourt would brook neither dissent nor disobedience.

“That’s an order, Salmalin! You’re too crack a shot for us to lose you now. Leave Moonsword to your men and board Skysong!”

By now, the grey-blue Longwing was dropping to join the tiring Fleur-de-Nuit and Numair knew he had no choice. He delayed a few seconds longer, placing a final hand of farewell on Moonsword’s neck and murmuring to Cooper, “I leave my heart in your hands, George. Take the greatest care of him.”

Cooper saluted and then Numair leapt away, landing comfortably on Skysong’s back.

“Finally! I was beginning to wonder whether Captain Harcourt was going to have to order you sent down for insubordination!” The Longwing’s captain snapped, brushing an errant curl out of her eyes with an irritable hand, “Are you always so slow to follow orders?”

“Only where the health of my dragon is concerned,” Numair snarled back as the younger woman’s words stung, cutting through his defences like razors through silk.

His saviour’s eyes softened, if only for an instant, but she whipped back around, battle mask firmly in place, as flares began to go off around them.

“We’re being ordered to attack the French flagship. I need you to keep the French off my back while Kit and I take care of the ship, understood? Aim for their captains if you can; it’ll throw their dragons into disarray.”

Her tone was brusque; too brusque for Numair, still struggling to process his beloved Moonsword’s injury, to comprehend. He hesitated as she scrambled up towards Skysong’s neck. For half a beat, she turned to glare at him.

“The sooner we beat these varmints, the sooner you can be reunited with your precious Moonsword. Now do your duty as England expects you to and cover me while I attack L’Orient. Blasted Indian sepoys, riding vulnerable dragons into battle. No wonder we conquered them so easily.”

This last was said as a grumble under her breath, but Numair, ears already used to straining to pick up every noise around him, as he often had to during reconnoitre missions, heard her clearly enough. Stung for the second time in their exceedingly brief acquaintance, he followed her up towards Skysong’s shoulder, shifting his rifle to his shoulder as he did so. Captain Sarrasri cut him a sidelong glance as he came up alongside her, but said nothing more than, “Keep that thing steady when we dive. I’d rather not deal with any more injured dragons if we can at all help it.”

Crouching over Skysong’s neck, she urged the young Longwing into a dive before Numair had a chance to respond, “Go on Kit, there’s a good girl.”

If the azure and silver dragon responded with more than obedience, it was lost in the whistle of the wind rushing past their ears as she plummeted towards the French flagship.

A gigantic Honneur-de-Or screeched angrily and twisted to follow them, but his larger bulk made him slower to turn than Skysong. By the time he had rounded the turn, Numair had discharged half-a-dozen bullets into his crew. Their ensuing panic distracted the larger dragon long enough for Skysong to bob away out of range and join the other British dragons sallying volleys of flame at the French fleet. Numair saw a flash of frustration cross Captain Sarrasri’s face as she noticed the way the other dragons were concentrating on the rigging, afraid to risk damaging the British fleet, who were so closely engaged with the French ships.

“Ally, signal to the Admiral that he needs to disengage and give us room.”

“Aye, Captain.” A young girl nodded and scurried away at Captain Sarrasri’s words. Captain Sarrasri placed a calming hand on Skysong’s neck.

“Hold your position, Kitten. Hold your position,” she called lowly, voice taut with the strain of keeping her emotions in check. Numair recognised it, not because he knew her well, but because he had used a similar voice to Moonsword more times than he could count.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for the ships below to receive and respond to their signal. As soon as she had their consent, Captain Sarrasri started to count down from ten.

“On my count, Kitten.”

The dragon nodded eagerly, beginning to puff herself up like a pair of bellows before her captain was even halfway through her count.

As soon as the word ‘one’ had left the young woman’s lips, she rocketed down towards the French ship beneath them, releasing a ball of flame as she reached the vertex of her dive.

“Up!” Captain Sarrasri screamed, almost involuntarily, it seemed, for Skysong needed no second urging. She bounded up into the night sky, issuing a screech of warning to the other dragons as she did so. The formation scattered, and not a moment too soon, for the great ship below them suddenly exploded, raining flaming splinters all through the vicinity.

Captain Sarrasri clenched a fist in triumph, “Gunpowder first time. Well done, Kitten!”

“Happy to be of service,” the young dragon chirped. Her words reached them during an unexpected lull in the fighting and held what Numair considered a surprisingly impish note, given the circumstances.

Before he could comment, however, Captain Harcourt signalled them, _Retreat to transports._

“We’re done here,” Captain Sarrasri passed a hand over her face and, for the first time, Numair realised just how young and exhausted she was. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or so. Probably another of those girls who had been promoted prematurely because of the fact that Longwings would only accept female captains.

They flew back to the transport boats in silence, but, as Numair followed Captain Sarrasri off Skysong’s back, he turned to her.

“You must excuse me, Captain, for having been so remiss as not to ask your name. Who did I have the pleasure of serving with tonight?”

The young woman glanced up from where she was personally unbuckling Skysong’s harness. “Daine,” she said shortly, unwilling to divulge anything more than she had to to this stranger, “Captain Daine Sarrasri.”

Before she could turn back to Skysong, however, Numair had caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, heels clicking together with military precision in a gallant courtly bow as he breathed “Numair Salmalin. The thanks and honour are mine, Captain.”

“A simple thank you would have sufficed,” Daine arched an eyebrow, but Numair was already gone, his burning desire to see Moonsword and check on his welfare for himself superseding all else.

Had he looked back, he would have seen the blush that sent its rosy tendrils creeping up Daine’s cheeks despite her best efforts to halt their progress. But he didn't. Moonsword’s welfare filled his mind rather than the rules of gallantry, and he didn't.

 

 


	2. II

**II**

No sooner had Numair left Daine tending to Skysong than he rushed to the corner of the dragon transport that was roped off to accommodate injured dragons. Moonsword lay there, head hanging dejectedly, as a team of medical officers scurried around him, tending to his damaged wing as best they could. Numair walked up to him and placed a gentle hand on his foreleg.

“Dear heart,” he said softly. Moonsword’s eyes flickered open, sending a fresh wave of agony through Numair’s heart as he saw the usually brilliant onyx eyes glazed with pain.

“Numair. Did we win? Did we give the cowards the thrashing they deserved?”

“We did,” Numair replied, relief surging through him to see Moonsword’s thirst for battle undimmed. It meant that the injury, severe though it was, was purely a physical one. The pain hadn’t affected his dear heart’s mind or spirit.

“Do you think we’ll get medals for this?” Moonsword asked, a note of hope entering his voice, “I would so like a new one soon.”

Despite himself, Numair chuckled, “Captain Sarrasri and Skysong are sure to be commended in spearheading such a successful attack against the French flagship and I shall be sure to remind Admiral Powys of the heavy price you paid in discharging your duty so valiantly.”

“Good,” Moonsword sighed contentedly, “I should like that very much.”

“But now you must rest. You will need all your strength if you are to make a full recovery.”

“I will. And you and George and the others will look after me splendidly, I’m sure.”

Emotion choked Numair at that, so that he could no longer speak, only lean further into Moonsword’s good side, running his fingers over the cool smooth scales. As he did so, the charcoal dragon, exhausted by pain and the effort of holding a conversation, drifted off to sleep.

**~**

A week later, Numair found himself dressed in a damnably stiff ceremonial uniform, complete with high collar and gilt-encrusted dress sword, hobnobbing it with the crème de la crème of English society.

As an aviator, and an Indian sepoy of an aviator at that, he was used to being shunned, not feted, so even though he plastered a smile on his face and accepted the ton’s congratulations, as propriety demanded, it was a relief to hear Admiral Powys’s familiar voice behind him.

“There you are, Captain Salmalin. You look mighty fine this evening. A credit to the Corps, if I may say so.”

“You may, sir, thank you,” Numair turned around and bowed, his heels clicking together as he snapped into a salute.

“At ease, Captain,” the Admiral chuckled, waving a jovial hand, “How is that poor beast of yours doing? Is he recovering apace? I was sorry to hear he’d been so grievously hurt.”

“Oh yes, sir, thank you. It’ll be a slow process, but he’s beginning to recover. And is as eager as ever to do his bit for England.”

“Good good. I’m glad this terrible business hasn’t lost him his nerve. You may tell him that the Corps will always need dragons as courageous as he is.”

“I will, sir,” Numair nodded. Just then, the woman at Admiral Powys’s side coughed slightly and the Admiral jumped.

“How remiss of me. Captain Salmalin, may I introduce you to my charming companion?”

To Numair’s shock, he realised the woman at the Admiral’s side, whose presence he had barely registered before now, was Daine. She looked even more uncomfortable than he felt. Someone had forced her into a forest green gown with silver lace and beading and her hair had been scraped back into a passable bun, although the unruliest tendrils were already beginning to escape its confines. Unlike Numair, she wasn’t even trying to smile. Nonetheless, he lifted her cold, clammy hand to his lips.

“Mistress Daine.”

Beside him, Admiral Powys went instantaneously purple.

“Mistress Daine?! Mistress Daine?! Is that how you greet the daughter of one of the greatest families in the land, Captain? Have all your years in the Corps taught you nothing of British courtesy? This is Lady Verity Diana Fitzweir, daughter of the Earl of Arran.”

As his superior berated him, Numair fought the urge to blush scarlet and instead met the older man’s eye coolly, “Lady Verity and I have already met, sir. She has already granted me the honour of calling her Daine.”

“Besides which, nobody calls me Lady Verity, sir. It doesn’t feel like me. It’s always been either Daine or Captain Sarrasri.”

“Oh, well, in that case...” Admiral Powys blustered. Numair decided to rescue the older man by changing the subject.

“Would you care to dance, Daine?” he asked, holding out his hand, before glancing sheepishly at the Admiral, “With your permission, sir.”

“What? Oh yes, yes, certainly. You two young people have earned a dance,” Admiral Powys waved them away and Daine took Numair’s hand, even if only reluctantly.

The musicians were striking up a country dance as they reached the floor and Numair exhaled in relief, “Thank Mithros. I’m much better at these than any other kind of dance.”

“I don’t dance much at all,” Daine replied, “I’ve always seen it as useless frippery.”

“Dance a useless frippery? An Earl’s daughter like you?  That I don’t believe.”

“I wasn’t always an Earl’s daughter.”

Her voice held a surprisingly defensive note and she spun away from him somewhat harder than the music demanded.

Unsure what faux pas he had made, but aware he had committed one, Numair steered the conversation on to safer ground when she rejoined him.

“I hear you and Skysong are to be awarded Orders of Merit for your part in the battle. Congratulations.”

“Not that I’ll get to see them Kitten will doubtless claim them it for her own as soon as look at them.” Daine pretended affront and Numair laughed with her.

“Moonsword’s just the same. His first thoughts after the battle were for whether we’d won and whether he might get a medal for his part in it.”

“Isn’t that just typical! How is your poor old dragon, by the way? Have the surgeons managed to patch him up yet?”

“As I said to Admiral Powys, just about. He’s making progress, but he’s nowhere near healed. It’ll be a long slow process and you know yourself that dragons make for terrible patients.”

“That they do! Why, I remember when -”

But Numair never found out what Daine remembered, for, at that precise moment, the music stopped.

The change that came over Daine was instantaneous. She dropped his hand, bobbed him a stiff curtsy and was gone before he’d had time to do more than sketch her the requisite bow.

Numair could have groaned out loud. What had he done now? Why did the chit have to be so damned prickly? By the Goddess!

**~**

“I hate them. I hate them all; their false smiles and fake civility. It’s all as brittle as ice and nowhere near as beautiful. Give me a good honest dragon any day. At least you know where you are with dragons.”

The savage hiss brought Numair out of his reverie with a jolt. He spun round, away from his contemplation of the rapidly deepening dusk, to see who had spoken.

It was Daine. She stood several paces behind him, her once passable bun a thing of the past. Her cheeks were flushed and she swayed slightly where she stood. She was very clearly under the influence of alcohol.

Half of Numair wanted to protect her, as every code of honour he had ever had drilled into him told him he must. However, his other half, the half that would never have had supremacy had he been entirely sober himself, yielded to his impish streak.

“Me too,” he admitted, pushing himself off the balcony he was leaning against and walking over to her, “What do you say we get away from them all for a bit?”

There was a moment where she hesitated, but then she reached out and grasped his calloused hand in hers.  She let him pull her along with a smothered laugh.

They ran down the steps of the veranda and into the lengthening shadows.

**~**

“I’m not really the Earl of Arran’s daughter. ‘Least, I’m not his real lawful daughter. I was born the wrong side of the sheets, I was. Growing up I was only ever Sara’s bastard, though Ma always told me my da was a grand man. Grander than most, she said, for he had the blood of the ole Stewart Kings in him. I never believed her, not till the Captains came and took me away to the Corps. I knew a poor bastard girl like me could never hope to make the Corps ‘less her da really were somebody. Not that he ever bothered to show his face ‘till he lost his trueborn children to the putrid throat. _Then_ he was happy enough to claim me and make me take his name. Lady Verity Diana Fitzweir. It don’t sound real though. It don’t sound like me.”

Daine slumped against one of the white marble pillars of the half-ruined folly, a tumbler of wine in one hand. Her once carefully cultivated voice was betraying her common origins more and more obviously as she became both more and more inebriated and more and more indignant. Lifting the tumbler to her lips, she gulped down another double mouthful, belched and then continued, “Not that it’ll do him any good, anyhow. I’m promised to the Corps. I can’t marry and have children, not now. It’s too late.”

Numair watched her, also rather more drunk than he had been an hour or so earlier, thanks to a forgotten pitcher of wine they had stumbled upon on their way down to the folly. Refreshments lost by a previous couple meeting for an assignation, most likely.

_“Does she know how attractive she is, flushed with fury like that?”_

The thought flashed through Numair’s head. Almost before he’d had time to process it properly, he found himself atop Daine, his lips locked on hers and his naked thighs straddling her hips, pinioning her to the cold marble floor beneath them. In his inebriated state, he didn’t think to question how he’d got there. All that mattered, in that moment, was that he had.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he whispered huskily, as he used his tongue to clumsily explore as much of her mouth and throat as he could reach in his present position, “Lady Verity Diana Fitzweir or Captain Daine Sarrasri. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re beautiful whatever name you use.”

From there, things took their natural course. That is to say, they proceeded as they generally do when a virile young man finds himself on top of a young woman to whom he is attracted.


	3. III

**III**

_Five months later_

“Captain Salmalin? Admiral Lawrence would like to see you in her office,” Davey, one of Numair’s runners, bounced on the balls of his feet as he delivered the message, practically bursting with pride at having been asked to deliver a message from the most powerful woman in the Corps.

Numair smiled gently at the young boy, “Thank you, Davey. I’ll go at once.”

Indeed, he stepped smartly up to the office wing lining one wall of the covert. Before he knocked on Admiral Lawrence’s door, however, he paused to tidy his appearance by dint of the aid of a large bay window. He straightened his necktie, brushed lint off his jacket and attempted to flatten his unruly curls with a despairing hand.

Realising the attempt was fruitless, he rapped smartly on the door, opening it as Admiral Lawrence’s command to enter reached his ears.

“You wanted to see -”

His polite enquiry was cut off and his newly-smartened appearance instantly spoilt by a blur of scarlet that arrowed straight into him, pummelling him with small, hard fists, battering furiously at his chest and midriff.

“You bastard! You Goddess damn bastard!”

“Captain Sarrasri! Control yourself!” Admiral Lawrence’s voice rang out hard above the sudden uproar and a pair of strong arms pulled the blur – which Numair, as the shock began to abate, suddenly recognised as Daine – off him and restrained her, though her captor did nothing to appease her quivering, white-lipped fury.

Startled, Numair looked to Admiral Lawrence for an explanation. She met his eye grimly.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Captain Salmalin, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. Can you deny you had an assignation with Captain Sarrasri on the night of the ball held to honour the Aviators and Captains of the Nile?”

At the Admiral’s words, a hazy memory began to surface in Numair’s consciousness. _Daine, pinned beneath him on a marble floor, skirts in disarray._

“Oh Gods.”

The exclamation, half-stifled, was involuntary. That didn’t, however, mean that it escaped Daine’s keen ears.

“How can you be swearing? You’re not the one carrying the consequences! By the Goddess - !”

“Captain Sarrasri!” Admiral Lawrence cut her off fiercely, “I will not have you swearing in my presence. Calm yourself. We will find a way to resolve this.” Turning to Numair, she added, “You don’t deny the child is yours, then?”

Numair shrugged, spreading his hands, palms turned up to the sky, “How can I? Though Captain Sarrasri and I are ill-acquainted, I’ve never heard anything to suggest I ought to doubt her word. And I cannot deny we got, well, carried away that night.”

The colour rose in Numair’s cheeks at the fortunately hazy memory. Nonetheless, desperate to save what little face he could, he pulled his shoulders back and looked Admiral Lawrence in the eye as he continued, “I’m prepared to do the honourable thing, Madam. If Captain Sarrasri so wishes, I will wed her and give our child a name and a home.”

Relief flashed in Admiral Lawrence’s eyes even as Daine, behind him, spat, “You needn’t bother, you jumped-up sepoy! I’ll not be a kept woman!”

“What? You’d rather subject your child to the life of an aviator’s bastard? To the same childhood you had, if not worse?” Stung, he whirled on her, his tone rather harsher than he intended.

“There was naught wrong with my childhood!” Daine snarled, thrashing against Captain Lawrence’s restraining hold.

“Enough!” Admiral Lawrence snapped before the situation got any more out of hand. Leaping to her feet, she frowned Daine into silence, “You’re not Daine Sarrasri anymore. You’re Lady Verity Diana Fitzweir. Things are different now. You have to play by a different set of rules. Your father – well, he won’t be delighted by any means, but your marrying will redeem the matter slightly. Remember, the one thing he wants most is a grandson to be his heir. As long as we handle this right, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t come around to accepting the situation. Captain Salmalin, as Captain Sarrasri’s, or I suppose I should say Lady Verity’s, superior and standing _in loco parentis,_ I accept your offer of marriage on her behalf. You may go.”

“Madam Admiral,” Numair bowed, then nodded his head to Captain Lawrence and his future wife, who merely glowered at him, still flushed with fury.

Jane Lawrence waited for the door to close behind him before nodding to her husband to release Daine and crossing the room to stand before her.

“I do understand where you’re coming from, Captain Sarrasri. I know your newfound heritage and this pregnancy are all a bit of a shock to you, but nonetheless, I want you to remember something.”

She paused, waiting for Daine to respond, but the younger woman didn’t take the bait, merely looked at her sullenly. At last, Jane had no choice but to go on, “Marriage does not, for us female aviators, restrict our lives. We’re lucky in that way. The Corps needs us too much to confine us to the domestic sphere the way normal society does with other women. Motherhood need not stop you from doing your duty for your country. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

Surprise did spark in Daine’s eyes at that, but keen not to get side-tracked from the conversation at hand, Admiral Lawrence hastily continued, “I know this is not the way you expected your life to go, but make the best of it if you can. Captain Salmalin is a good man; make the best of it.” Her voice suddenly softened as she glanced down at the simple sapphire band on the third finger of her left hand, “Heaven knows it worked for us.”

She smiled at her husband, who returned the glance with affection. Daine caught the glance and shuffled her feet uncomfortably.

“Can I go? Or will there be anything else?” she added, as an afterthought, belatedly remembering her more formal manners.

Admiral Lawrence sighed, “Yes, Captain Sarrasri. You may go. But remember what I’ve said. Don’t write married life off just yet.”

Daine didn’t reply, simply bowed stiffly and retreated out of sight, struggling to get her emotions under control.

* * *

"Captain Salmalin? Might I have a word?”

Numair turned at the sound of the voice, dipping his head as Captain Lawrence hurried over to him.

“Captain Lawrence?”

“I’ve been thinking. Your bride-to-be, well, she’s a little unconventional, to say the least. I doubt whether a church wedding would really suit her.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Numair confessed, feeling he could be candid with one of the few people who hadn’t scolded either Daine or himself for their lapse. However, unsure where Captain Lawrence was going with this, he said nothing more, only waited for the older man to explain what he’d been thinking.

“I still have my rank of Captain in the Navy. At least, I still have it on paper, for they never officially stripped me of it when they transferred me to the Corps. A friend of mine from those days still owes me a favour or two. I could call upon him to take us offshore and marry the two of you out on the open water, if you wished it. ‘Salt-water marriages’ they call those ceremonies. It would be just as binding as a church rite, but far less formal, which I have a feeling would suit your firebrand of a fiancée far better. What do you say?”

Numair considered for a few moments. It was a truly generous offer and one which would make it easier for the dragons to attend, as they would no doubt want to. After all, there was no question that the two of them would be able to hover on either side of the ship for however long the ceremony took. Indeed, it might even be a good thing for Moonsword to have the exercise, now that he was so close to being fully recuperated.

Surely Daine would like to have Skysong present on the most important day of her life?

With all these thoughts in mind, an acceptance had almost made its way on to his lips, when another thought, this one as cold and as horrible as being drenched with a bucket of ice, crept into his mind. Daine might approve of the idea of a ‘salt-water marriage’, but her father, Lord Arran, certainly would not. Securing his acceptance of their marriage was going to be awkward enough without antagonising him over the form in which it was celebrated as well.

“Nay, Captain Lawrence, I thank you, but I feel I must decline. Generous though the offer is, I fear that Lord Arran would not countenance accepting the validity of such a union. The situation is far from ideal as it is. Let’s not make it even worse by choosing any other kind of ceremony than vows and a blessing before the Goddess and the Trinity at an altar.”

Captain Lawrence nodded and clasped Numair’s forearm briefly, “Understood.”

Then he walked away, leaving Numair staring after his retreating back, hoping against hope that he hadn’t made the wrong decision.

* * *

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to see this man and this woman united in holy matrimony before the Goddess and the Trinity. If any man has an objection or reason why this union should not go ahead, let him speak now or else forever hold his peace.”

“I object!”

The voice rang the rafters of the chapel and the small group of witnesses turned as one to stare, nonplussed, at the intruder.

Numair did the same and saw it was a stocky, red-faced man with ruddy-brown hair several shades darker than Daine’s.

_Lord Arran_.

The realisation crashed over Numair at the same time as the older man roared, “This woman is my daughter and I strenuously object to this match! Besides the fact that he is far beneath her in status, this scoundrel failed to do me the courtesy of petitioning me for her hand. As Lady Verity’s paterfamilias _,_ it is for me to choose -”

Used to the relative informality of the Aerial Corps, Numair bridled at Lord Arran’s pomposity. His lips parted as he made to protest. Seeing it, Admiral Lawrence moved forward, intending to use the courtly manners that Lord Arran had no doubt had drilled into him from birth to turn the situation to her advantage. Daine beat them both to it.

Her hand came up on to Numair’s sleeve and she whirled around, exposing her unmistakeably broad belly to her father’s gaze. Faced with it, he faltered and she pounced on his stumbling silence.

“No, _Father_ ,” she sneered, “It is not for you to choose. Not now. For this man sired my child six moons ago and if we do not wed now, the babe in my belly will be born out of wedlock. I doubt you’ll find anyone willing to take me to wife once I’ve whelped a bastard, will you?”

The colour drained from Lord Arran’s face.

“Isolence!” he mouthed, jaw working furiously. But there was nothing he could say to refute his daughter’s words. Though he stood his ground in the aisle for a few moments longer, soon he had no choice but to turn away, pale and grimacing with anger and disgust.

Relief filled the chapel and Numair placed a grateful hand over Daine’s where it rested on his sleeve.

“Thank you,” he breathed. She said nothing, merely nodded sharply, her eyes like flint.

When the time came to exchange their vows, she pronounced her “I do” in a tone that brooked no disapproval, throwing a poison glare over her shoulder at her father as though daring him to contradict her. Lord Arran harrumphed and used his silver-topped cane to push himself to his feet, stalking out of the chapel without a backward glance.

* * *

“Congratulations, Captain,” Lawrence shook Numair’s hand and touched his champagne flute to the one the younger man was holding, “Here’s hoping your married life follows a rather more conventional path than your wooing has done.”

“With Daine as my bride?” Numair raised an eyebrow and Lawrence chuckled wryly, before handing over a clumsily wrapped parcel.

“From Skysong, Moonsword, Excidium and Temeraire. It appears they felt such a gift was necessary as a blessing on your coming child. They begged me to make their excuses for the state of the gift’s wrappings. Wrapping is rather difficult with talons, apparently.”

Now it was Numair’s turn to smile. “I can imagine,” he replied, as he pulled the paper off to reveal the gaudiest sapphire and diamond necklace he had ever seen. Half a dozen ropes of sapphires hung from a gigantic diamond carved into the shape of a ship, which was itself set in a three-strand choker of alternating diamonds and sapphires. The greatest Duchess in the land would have struggled to hold her head up under its weight, never mind an as yet unborn child.  Numair had to fight back the urge to laugh as he shook Captain Lawrence’s hand again.

“Please thank them very much indeed,” he said solemnly, “Daine and I shall be sure to treasure such a gift.”

At the sound of her name, Daine turned. Numair held the gift up for her inspection.

“What in Mithros’s name is that?” she exploded, crossing the space between them in two loping strides.

“From the dragons. For our child.”

Daine’s face cleared at Numair’s hasty explanation and she broke out into a great beam of a smile.

“Bless them,” she chuckled, “They mean well.”

She was close enough for Numair to snake his free arm around her waist and he did so, ignoring the way she stiffened at his touch. After all, he reasoned, they were married. They had to present a united front in public.

In public, moreover, was precisely where they found themselves as their guests, discomforted by the sudden reminder of the circumstances under which this wedding was taking place, began to make their excuses and stream towards the door. Without really realising how it had come to be, Daine and Numair found themselves standing alone in a deserted ballroom, the terrifyingly blank expanse of their married life together stretching out before them in the echoing silence.

Horribly self-conscious of his arm around her waist, Numair sprang back from her as though he’d been burnt.

“I’ll sleep in the dressing room, you may have no fear of that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daine snapped, “I’m not the prudish miss my father wants me to be. Of course we’ll share a bed. Leastways, as often as our duties for the Corps permit, we will.”

“Not yet,” Numair shook his head, “You’re six months gone with child. I swore to Admiral Lawrence I’d treat you with honour once you were my wife. Taking advantage of you in your current condition would not be honourable.”

“Why should you care what’s honourable? It’s not like you cared six months ago!”

“I was drunk, Trinity be damned! I didn’t even remember the night until Admiral Lawrence reminded me of it. But I’m trying to do the right thing now. I’m trying to do the right thing and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep flinging my mistake in my face ever chance you get!”

Fury coursing through his veins, Numair whirled around and stormed from the room. Daine watched him go, startled to find tears slipping icily down her cheeks.

“Blasted hormones!” she swore, scrubbing fiercely at them with her knuckles. But try as she might, she couldn’t suppress the dart of loneliness that pierced her heart as Numair’s footsteps faded away.

That drove her to her knees, weeping, with her pine-green skirts pooling on the sprung floor around her.

* * *

“Captain?”

The midwife’s voice was hesitant, as though she was afraid to interrupt his musings. He spun round, smiling at her to put her fears at rest. “Yes?”

“Your wife has been delivered of a healthy baby girl.”

Numair released a breath he hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding, “Thank the Goddess and the Trinity!”

Fishing in his jacket pocket, he found a golden crown piece and pressed it into her hand.

“We’ll settle up when I’ve seen my wife and child,” he told her, dimly aware he’d probably overpaid her, but not caring. To his surprise, all he really cared about was assuring himself that Daine and his – their - daughter were truly well.

He bounded up the stairs to the infirmary suite in the covert, where Daine had lain in childbed for the past several hours.

A screen of blankets had been set up in one corner to allow her the privacy to birth and bond with their little girl and Numair crossed the room towards it. As he reached out to pull it back, however, he hesitated.

In the three months since their wedding, he and Daine had hardly spoken. To be fair, they hadn’t even been in the same part of the country much; he and Moonsword had been sent on various reconnaissance missions around the Channel and the northern French coast, while Daine and Skysong had been assigned duties at the training covert in the Highlands.  Surely, given the circumstances, they could be forgiven for not having the same rapport as other newly-married couples? Yet, when he thought of the awkwardly silent meals they had shared on the rare occasions he had been permitted to join her in Scotland, Numair’s heart sank. Maybe he wouldn’t be welcome here after all.

But that was ridiculous! The girl was his daughter as much as Daine’s. In fact, any court would grant him custody of the child rather than her. Clinging to that thought – that reminder of his superiority – to bolster his failing courage, Numair gripped the curtain and wrenched it back sharply, hoping his actions would be excused as the excitement or nerves of a new father.

Daine’s head came up as he entered, “Hush. She’s just drifted off to sleep.”

He nodded, came quietly round to the head of the bed to look down at his daughter as she dozed in her mother’s arms. The child’s eyes were closed in repose, so he had no chance to guess what colour they might become, but the thatch of down on her head was distinctly reddish-brown in colour.

“She has your hair,” he ventured in a whisper.

Daine nodded, “It was my ma’s as well. Mind, that’s not to say it won’t darken as she gets older. Children’s hair often does.”

“What shall we call her?”

Daine touched the sleeping baby’s cheek with a gentle fingertip before she answered.

“I thought we could call her Linnet,” she murmured at last, “Linnet Sarah, after my ma.”

“That sounds beautiful. I’m sure she’d be very proud of her granddaughter.” Numair hesitated, then reached for Daine’s wrist, emboldened by a recent conversation with Moonsword, in which the Fleur-de-Nuit had made the point, in no uncertain terms, that he owed it to Linnet to at least try to build some sort of bridges with her mother.

_“No dragon would ever treat their mate the way you treat Captain Sarrasri, Salmalin. Especially not with a kit on the way. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Do something about it or, by the Goddess, I’ll make sure you end up with the dunking of your life the next time we go flying.”_

“I know we got off to a bad start, Daine. In fact, I’ll freely admit that most of that was my fault. None of this would have happened at all if I’d been able to hold my liqueur better. But now that it has, do you think we might be able to agree to let bygones be bygones? For Linnet’s sake, if not for our own? Surely it’s not fair on her to have two parents who are at war with one another? For her sake, do you think we could use today as a clean slate and go forward with the intention of making our marriage work?”

For several moments, Daine said nothing and Numair began to worry he’d misspoken again. Why did the woman have to be so damn prickly?

But then she did something entirely unexpected. She leaned over and gently placed their sleeping daughter in his arms. Numair felt a rush of paternal pride well up in him at the warm weight, one so all-consuming that it almost robbed him of the ability to make out Daine’s words, choked as they were by barely suppressed tears.

“Well, thank Mithros! It’s about time. I was beginning to worry you’d never ask and I’d have to actually put this dratted pride aside and do something myself, you fool!”

 

 


	4. IV

**Chapter IV**

_Three Years Later_

“Numair, have you seen Linnet?” Daine called to her husband of three and a half years as it dawned on her that the rooms they shared were eerily quiet. It was late morning, almost lunch-time. Their three-year-old daughter would ordinarily have been whining for attention or complaining that she was hungry for at least half an hour by now.

“Hmm?  What was that?”

Her husband appeared in the door of their bedroom, rubbing the bridge of his nose absently. He had a chart in his hand and seeing it, Daine sighed. She might have known.

Numair had just been promoted to Formation Leader and was deep in the midst of planning his first series of reconnaissance missions in that capacity. His mind was full of nothing else.

Twitching the chart out of his hands, Daine clicked her fingers impatiently.

“Linnet? You know, your _daughter?_ You were supposed to be watching her.”

“Yes. Oh yes,” Numair scratched his head, sending flakes of dandruff fluttering down to his collar, where they lay like the earliest flakes of snow, soft and light, on a winter’s morning, “I remember now. She wanted to go and play with the dragons.”

“And you let her?” Daine gaped, “She’s three years old!”

“I didn’t see the harm. It’s not as though the dragons would ever let any harm come to her, after all.”

Blinking, Daine gulped like a fish several times, jaw working furiously, and then spun on her heel, shaking her head and running outside to the training fields.

“I have to do everything around here!” she grumbled.

She knew she didn’t have a right to complain, not really. Numair did more to help with Linnet than many men did their wives or mistresses, even here, in the rather more enlightened world of the Aerial Corps, where it was often said that the Captains were bred as much as the dragons were. However, right now, with their toddler daughter getting up to who knew what mischief around the dragons, the soup she had spent the last three hours slaving over threatening to boil into unrecognisable mush on the stove and the prospect of even more chaos in the not too far away future, when Numair would be too swept up in his preparations to care even for food, Linnet would be clamouring for attention and the babies wailing in their cribs in the corner... Daine sighed, her hand drifting to rest on her as yet barely-swollen midriff.

“Oh little ones. I only hope your father gets this blasted need for his work to be perfect out of his head before you arrive. I could do with him paying a sight more attention to you than he does to your sister at the moment.”

“Me too! Me too!” Linnet’s piping voice brought Daine out of her musings. Her head snapped up.

Her three year old daughter was hopping up and down, tugging eagerly on the tail straps of Temeraire’s harness. The older boys and girls – Admiral Lawrence’s daughter among them – were chuckling and scrambling up and down the leather straps. Clearly, they were multi-tasking between practising their manoeuvres and indulging Linnet, helping her up over Temeraire’s tail and taking her hand to run along his back with her. Linnet laughed and clapped her hands. When, standing on the top of Temeraire’s gun platform, she saw Daine watching her, she waved eagerly.

“Ma-ma, look! Ma-ma!”

“Ma-ma’s looking, pet,” she called back, before turning to Temeraire, “I’m sorry she’s bothering your crew like this.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” the huge black dragon said equably, “The kit is positively enchanting. She’s reminded my crew to be children from time to time. It’s been wonderful to see. Besides, it’s good to see she’s so fearless. We’ll make an aviator of her yet.”

Unsure what to say to that – Linnet was still so young that Daine hadn’t dared to think what her daughter might grow up to be – she decided to say nothing at all. Instead, she patted Temeraire’s neck where he had craned it down to speak to her and turned back to the children.

“Miss Lawrence-Roland,” she called, catching the eye of the eldest girl, who was now spinning Linnet round by the waist, both of them laughing as their unruly curls streamed out behind them, “Might I beg you for the return of my daughter? I need to take her home and feed the troops.”

“Of course, Captain Salmalin!” Emily skidded to a halt, saluted and began to scramble down from Temeraire’s back, Linnet clinging to her shoulders and crowing delightedly.

As they reached the ground, Emily ruffled Linnet’s hair, “There you go, missy. Go back to your mother. I’ll see you soon.”

Linnet nodded, running up to Temeraire’s head. She stretched up on tiptoe and the big black dragon put his nose down to meet her palm, nuzzling her as gently as he knew how.

“Goodbye, little bird. Come and play again soon, won’t you?”

“Yes, Temmy. Goodbye,” Linnet chirped before skipping over to Daine and slipping her hand into hers. As ever, Daine had to suppress a smile at the little girl’s innocent mangling of Temeraire’s name. She squeezed the tiny hand she cradled within her own.

“Come on, you. Let’s go home.”

Unbeknown to Linnet and Daine, however, Celeritas, Admiral Lawrence and the rest of the training team had been watching the three year old’s play from a platform on the other side of the field. As the russet-haired Daine left the field, taking her raven-headed child with her, the small group turned to one another, nodding.

“She’s a natural. To be that comfortable around dragons, at her age...”

“It would be a crime not to secure her a place in the Corps just as soon as ever we can.”

Celeritas’s unblinking eyes, as he turned them on Admiral Lawrence, held a gaze that could only be described as pleading.

Unnerved despite herself at the desperation in his gaze, she paused, brushing imaginary specks of lint off her lapels to buy herself time.

As an Admiral, she agreed with Celeritas’s assessment. Little Linnet Salmalin seemed to have all the attributes necessary for a successful life in the Corps. Good balance, a head for heights and a bravery that could sometimes be said to border on recklessness. It would be foolish of them not to at least offer her a place. As a mother, however, she was loath to pressure Numair and Daine into deciding their daughter’s future while she was still so young.

But she couldn’t afford to think like a mother. Not when she was the first female Admiral the Corps had had since Lady Charlotte Stuart back in the 1680s. There were enough people questioning her appointment without her giving them any more ammunition.

That thought in mind, she sighed, bowing her head.

“Very well. As you wish. I’ll speak to Captain Salmalin.”

* * *

“Daine? Might I have a word?”

Admiral Lawrence’s voice was surprisingly gentle. Moreover, her use of Daine’s first name – and her nickname at that – also surprised the younger woman. Although more and more people were calling her either ‘Daine’ or ‘Verity’, in an attempt to distinguish between the two Captain Salmalins now found within the Corps’s ranks, her superiors were not generally among them.

“Admiral! Of course!” she nodded, saluting as she swung round from washing Kitten’s silvery flank, nudging the young dragon to remind her of her manners.

“Admiral,” Kitten murmured, half-asleep under Daine’s ministrations. Daine swept the brush over her scales a couple more times, functioning on autopilot, before starting guiltily.

“Forgive me. Should we go somewhere else? I can easily....”

“No, no,” Admiral Lawrence waved away her half-finished offer, “Carry on, Captain. It’s good to see you take such personal care of Skysong. Heaven knows the Corps needs more captains like you.”

The silence stretched between them for a few moments. Daine began to wonder why Admiral Lawrence had wanted to speak to her so badly and had just opened her mouth to say so when the older woman suddenly continued, “Mother to mother, do you mind my asking whether you’ve given any thought to Linnet’s future yet?”

Daine shook her head, struggling to hide her shock at the sudden change in subject.

“Numair’s full of grand plans, of course, but I don’t pay much attention to his schemes. As long as she’s happy and knows where her next meal’s coming from, well, I don’t think any of us have a right to ask any more than that.”

“So you wouldn’t have any qualms about training her for say, the Corps, if she turned out to have an affinity for it?”

Daine half-shrugged, “I suppose not. As long as her Captain kept her safe and treated her fairly.”

“You don’t sound very surprised,” Admiral Lawrence raised an eyebrow. Daine shrugged again, moving round to Kitten’s head to wash her face.

“Linnet can’t keep away from the dragons. Temeraire’s already said she’d be a natural. It was really only a matter of time before Celeritas asked you to speak to us about her. I presume it was Celeritas?” she added, as an afterthought.

“Of course,” Admiral Lawrence chuckled, “Who else would it be?”

“When does he want her to start?”

“Oh not until she’s five, at least. But that’s still awfully young. Children aren’t usually taken for the Corps until they’re seven.”

“I’m in the Corps. Her father’s in the Corps. If anyone’s going to have an exception made for her, it’s Linnet. Wasn’t Captain Harcourt raised in the Corps?”

“She was. But her father was never her captain, so don’t think you or Numair will be captaining Linnet. People would worry you’d favour her.”

Daine nodded at the warning in the older woman’s voice, “I’d expect nothing less.”

Admiral Lawrence paused, then stood to go, “One more thing, Captain. Do you want Linnet trained to take over Skysong’s captaincy?”

Daine considered, head to one side and two fingertips on Kitten’s nose to calm her as she stiffened at the mere mention of having to do without Daine as her captain.

“I don’t think so,” she said at last, “Goddess and Trinity willing, I’ll be able to serve with Kitten for years yet. I wouldn’t want to make Linnet wait that long for a Captaincy of her own. Maybe one of these two can take it over.”

The words were out of her mouth before she was even conscious she was saying them. Admiral Lawrence’s eyes widened.

“Well. You seem to have got over your hatred of your husband. I wonder whether another few months on training duty with Celeritas will also cure you of your impatience.”

“But...Madam Admiral...” Even as Daine began to protest, however, she already knew it was fruitless. Breeding one’s captains was all very well, but it meant the Corps was even more stringent about enforcing ground leave when it was necessary than it might otherwise have been.

“That’s an order, Captain,” Admiral Lawrence barked in her best Commander’s voice, walking away before Daine could protest any further. Daine ran a hand through her hair in exasperation.

“Mithros! Why on earth did I let that slip? I’m going to have the most boring few months!”

“She only wants you well. And I for one agree with her. After all, she didn’t say we couldn’t go flying, just that we were on training duty,” Kitten winked mischievously and Daine laughed.

“Goddess and Kyprioth bless you, Kit! What would I do without you?”

“Be very bored and very cross. Now, are you ever going to get around to my claws?”

“All right, all right!” Daine chuckled at her friend’s impatience and bent down to attend to her claws.

* * *

“So Linnet is to be promised to the Corps and placed in line for a dragon of her own, our firstborn son is to be handed over to your father to be raised as the next Fitzweir Earl of Arran and our third child will be expected to take over either Kitten’s Captaincy or Moonsword’s. Do you think we’ll ever have a child who can decide their own destiny?”

Numair lay back in bed, musing aloud. Daine propped herself up on one elbow to look at him as he lay there, one arm sprawled behind his head, cushioning the gap between it and the pillow.

“That depends,” she said slowly. Numair arched an eyebrow.

“That depends, does it? And what, pray tell, does it depend on?”

“Why, on how much you enjoy the making of them, of course. I’ve heard it’s much easier for a woman to conceive if she finds the process....satisfactory,” Daine drew the last word out into a silken purr, curling her tongue around the syllables as though they were a pot of cream she was trying to empty.

As she’d expected, Numair’s eyes darkened with lust at the very sound of them. Fast as a snake, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her down on top of him, crushing his lips to hers.

“Satisfactory, you say?” he grumbled into the kiss, “I’ll give you satisfactory, you minx!”

 _“Well,”_ Daine mused, as they lay panting quite some time later, “ _One can’t accuse Numair of not being a man of his word. That...experience really was most satisfactory indeed._ ”

 


	5. V

**Chapter V**

In the event, Daine never saw her daughter’s first day in the Corps. Tensions had risen with the French again by that point, so she and her formation had been posted to communication duty between the various Army and Navy squadrons standing guard on both sides of the Channel, just in case Napoleon got it into his head that he wanted to attack Calais. Calais was the last stronghold of the Plantagenet Empire that had stretched from the Pennines to the Pyrenees. There was no way the British Crown could allow the French cockerel to seize their precious jewel on the Continent and use it as a base from which to attack the United Kingdom, and so Daine’s services were required to ensure that he didn’t.

However, although she missed the actual day that her five year old daughter swore her allegiance to His Majesty and received the colours of the Corps in her hair, she heard about it. Every single person who ever went through the Corps again heard about it. Linnet Salmalin’s first day in the Corps went down in history.

* * *

 _“_ Gather round everyone. Gather round and say good afternoon to Celeritas. He’s the Training Master here and he’ll be taking you through your physical exercises starting from tomorrow. And when you’re old enough and lucky enough to have been selected as part of a Captain’s crew, he’ll also be training you in battle manoeuvres and the various formations – Linnet Salmalin, what do you think you’re doing?! Get back here!”  The young Captain charged with showing the Corps’s newest recruits around the training grounds broke off as he realised that one of their number was no longer paying attention.

Linnet, bored to tears by hearing the pompous young man repeat things, names and rules she’d already heard a thousand times over, had broken away from the group. Laughing, flushed and panting, she streaked over to the just-landing dragon, the one whose muzzle was still wet from the post-feeding wash Emily Lawrence-Roland had given him.

Before their audiences’ astonished – and not a little horrified – gaze, Linnet scrambled up on to Temeraire’s back, boosting herself up by putting one foot against the base of his wing where it brushed the ground and holding on to the ruff around his neck to keep herself secure once she had settled into a seat on his curving back.

Had she chosen any other dragon, even one of her parents’, no doubt she would have been sent back to her classmates with a flea in her ear, but Temeraire was still young enough to relish in the occasional piece of mischief. Besides, he adored Linnet and her fearlessness, so, chuckling throatily, he gave a great leap and bounded into the air.

He didn’t go particularly high, barely skimming the tops of the pine trees surrounding the training fields, nor did he go particularly fast, but the banking turns he put in at either end of each sweep of the training field and the ease with which Linnet shifted her weight to adjust to them, even without a harness, startled those on the ground regardless.

“She’s a natural,” the young Captain murmured to himself.  Celeritas nodded.

“If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d wonder if she wasn’t part dragon. She might have been born on their backs. She’s more of a kit than a child in some ways.”

Then, raising his head, he bellowed, “Very well, Temeraire. You’ve made your point. Bring the child back down to earth before good Captain Greystoke has a heart attack.”

Temeraire obeyed, furling his wings and dropping like a stone towards the ground, much as though he were desperately trying to avoid a collision in battle.

To Linnet’s credit, though the blood drained from her face as she plummeted towards the ground, her shriek was born more of excitement than fear and she kept her seat. By the time Temeraire landed, she was pink-cheeked with exhilaration and begging him to land like that again next time.

“There will be no _next time_ , Miss Salmalin. What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” Captain Greystoke snapped, almost dragging her from Temeraire’s back and shaking her by the shoulders.

Linnet tossed her head, every inch her mother’s daughter as her raven curls swished out behind her.

“Don’t be silly! Temmy would never hurt me, would you, Temmy?”

“Indeed I would not!” Temeraire snorted, indignant at the very suggestion. Linnet swung round to face Captain Greystoke, grey eyes burning with pride, “There! You see?!”

“Nonetheless, Miss Salmalin,” Celeritas broke in, regaining control of the situation before Captain Greystoke exploded with fury at the minx’s impudence, “What you just did was foolhardy in the extreme. It could have been very dangerous and you’re extremely lucky that Temeraire is a trustworthy dragon. What we’re training you to do is exceedingly perilous. There are lives at stake. Which means you have to follow the rules. There’s no other way to keep everybody safe. Do you understand?”

“And to beat the French and their horrid scary Emperor,” Linnet chirped, “Obedience is what wins us battles. Mama and Papa taught me that.”

Celeritas chuckled despite himself, “Indeed it is. Which is why it is so important to do as you’re told and not what you want to. Do you understand?”

Linnet bobbed her head eagerly and Celeritas waved her away with an indulgent front claw. He knew he was being too soft on her but even he wasn’t completely immune to the charm of the tiny girl with the raven curls, impish smile and great grey eyes.

Captain Greystoke watched Linnet skip away to join the older children, who were hanging, slack-jawed with shock and envy, over the side of the fence.

“Her father’s recklessness and her mother’s instinct and patriotism. Well I never. I pity the French the day she gets a dragon of her own.”

* * *

Captain Greystoke’s words came true far sooner than he expected. Linnet’s rise through the ranks of the Aerial Corps was nothing short of meteoric. Runner to Captain Harcourt at the age of just nine, a year younger than most of the other children in that role, ensign at thirteen and Second Sergeant at fifteen...she attracted admiration and envy in equal measure.

And then came the day she came bursting through the door at home, raven hair flying, grey eyes aflame with excitement.

“Mamma!” The Longwings are going to hatch soon and Captain Harcourt says I may try to harness one!”

“You’re going to be a Captain? But you’re scarcely seventeen. You haven’t even been a First Sergeant or a Flight Lieutenant yet!”

Daine looked up from where she was stirring the mutton stew in disbelief. Linnet shrugged a shoulder carelessly.

“Captain Harcourt seems to think I’m ready.”

“It’s also a matter of expediency,” Numair explained, entering the kitchen more sedately than his eldest daughter, but still in time to hear Daine’s startled exclamation, “They’ve received a dozen Longwing eggs on the brink of hatching from Dublin. Dublin sent them across because they don’t have enough female sergeants to harness them all. But neither do we, unless we let a few Second Sergeants try their luck. And we can’t risk those dragons turning feral. We need them too badly.”

His eyes met Daine’s and an unspoken shudder passed between them. The mysterious dragon flu of a year and a half earlier was still too fresh in their minds for either of them to be comfortable discussing it. Linnet had fortunately been out of the country on duty with Captain Harcourt, so she’d missed the worst of it, but they’d come so close to losing both Moonsword and Kitten...and they _had_ lost so many other good dragons. Maximus, Obaria, Celeritas, Silverwing... the list was well-nigh endless. It was hardly surprising the Corps was desperate to recover its strength as quickly as possible, even if that meant promoting the unlikeliest of Captains. In the long run, in fact, Linnet was probably the best qualified of those up for promotion, given her heritage and the amount of time she’d spent around dragons growing up.

 _“She’s not our little girl anymore,_ ” Daine’s eyes communicated this sudden realisation to Numair and he gave the slightest of resigned nods, coming over to take her hand in silent comfort.

Linnet, beside herself with excitement, was too distracted to notice much of what was going on around her, but she was still aware enough to notice the way her parents had edged together. Her delight wavered.

“You’ll both be there, won’t you? I couldn’t imagine harnessing my dragon without you both there.”

In that instant, as she sought their approval, Linnet betrayed how very young she still was. Scarcely more than a child, really, for all she tried to play the lady. His fingers tightening on Daine’s, Numair spoke for them both.

“If it’s humanly possible, we will be, darling,” he promised, his voice just the tiniest bit husky, “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Daine couldn’t deny the mute appeal in her eldest daughter’s gaze. Slipping her hands from Numair’s grasp, she crossed the kitchen and gathered the young woman into her arms.

“When did you grow up so fast?” she sighed into her daughter’s hair, wishing, just for an instant, that she could turn back time and hold her baby daughter in her arms once more.

Then their youngest son, Lawrence, named after their strongest allies in the Corps, wandered into the kitchen.

“Is mutton stew supposed to be black and gloopy? And smell dangerously of smoke?” he asked, peering dubiously into the pot that still stood, utterly disregarded, on the stove.

“Mithros!” Daine shrieked, leaping away from Linnet, “Oh, damn and blast it! I’ll never make a cook!”

And because none of them could deny the truth of that statement, they all fell about laughing, so that raucous shouts of mirth rang through the smoky kitchen, even as the acrid smell of burning pepper seared the backs of their throats and made them cough uncontrollably.

* * *

The hammering at the door of their apartment jolted them all out of sleep. Blinking the sand out of his eyes, Numair went to answer it.

“What in the name of the Goddess is going on? It’s four in the -” He broke off at the sight of the messenger in his crisp, navy blue coat. The man saluted smartly.

“Good morning, Captain Salmalin. I apologise for the intrusion, but Miss Linnet is needed down at the breeding pavilion as a matter of urgency.”

Linnet didn’t wait to hear any more. Barely stopping to change into her aviator’s jacket, she bolted from the room, Daine and Numair hot on her heels.

* * *

They were only just in time. Even as Linnet skidded into the pavilion, panting and scarlet with the exertion of the dash across the covert, the large mottled egg quivered, then began to split under the pressure of the creature thrashing around inside it.

Captain Harcourt saw them coming and beckoned Linnet over.

“Linnet! At last! Quickly!”

She thrust a training harness at the younger woman, but Linnet shook her head, “Just find me a strap of leather, if you please, Captain.”

Even as she spoke, her hands were busy at her neck, unfastening the great sapphire and diamond necklace she had been gifted by the dragons before she was even born, the necklace she had worn almost constantly for the past fortnight, despite the annoyance of its weight and bulk.

Captain Harcourt exchanged bewildered looks with Daine and Numair. Surely Linnet didn’t intend to try to harness the dragon using her necklace?”

But before they could protest, or even do more than exchange that single glance, the egg sprang open with an ear-splitting crack.

As they watched, not daring to breathe for fear of startling it, the dragonet inside inched forward a bit, tentatively at first, but gaining in confidence as it began to unfurl its wings.

It was a beautiful creature. Its head and neck were the deepest spring green, a colour which somehow shifted and deepened into a gorgeous pale lilac around her feet, claws and tail, with even the tiniest hints of indigo around the eyes and snout.

Despite their best attempts to stay silent, those watching gasped in a collective intake of breath as the little head turned, fixing great ochre eyes on Linnet as she stepped forward, necklace held out placatingly.

“That feels better. I’ve got room to breathe again now,” the little dragon pronounced cheerfully.

“I’m sure,” Linnet soothed, moving forward slowly so as not to startle her, “And I’m so delighted to meet you. I have a gift for you, in the hope that we may be friends and enjoy working together one day soon.”

“A gift? For me?” The ochre eyes widened in pleasure and Linnet nodded.

“If you’ll come here, I’ll put it around your neck so that we can be friends.”

The dragonet bobbed her head enthusiastically and bounded forward, almost knocking Linnet off her feet in her eagerness. Regaining her composure surprisingly swiftly, Linnet reached up and slipped the great bejewelled chain around the jade neck, snapping the clasp shut more by instinct than sight.

“There,” she breathed, too choked with emotion to say any more. She had to clear her throat several times before she could go on.

“We are bound for life now, you and I.”

Captain Harcourt whistled admiringly.

“Well, if that isn’t the strangest way to harness a dragon I’ve ever seen!”

“With all due respect, Captain, she’s my daughter. Our daughter. She was never going to do things the orthodox way,” Daine pointed out, slightly more heat in her voice than she intended, before softly applauding her daughter, trying not to break the spell if she could help it.

“Well done, Linnet, darling. Have you thought what you’re going to call her?”

Linnet half-turned, a surprisingly blank look in her grey eyes.

At that moment, however, a dart of light from the just-rising sun caught a tendril of wisteria as it wound its way around the doorframe, throwing its emerald foliage and lilac clusters of blossom into stark relief. Linnet’s eyes lit up with inspiration.

“I think....Wisteria,” she murmured dreamily, “That is, if you have no objection,” she added hastily, spinning round to face the baby dragon again.

“Oh no, of course not. I think it’s pretty!” she exclaimed and Captain Harcourt laughed, stepping forward to hand Linnet a leather strap.

“Wisteria it is then. A fine name for a fine dragon. Linnet, why don’t you show her some of the covert and find her something to eat?”

“Yes, Captain Harcourt. Come on, Wisteria.”

Linnet saluted smartly, hooked the leather strap through the necklace expertly so that it functioned as a kind of leash and padded out into the meadow beyond, Wisteria trotting obediently behind her as though she were a well-trained dog.

Captain Harcourt watched her go a few paces and then whistled again, “She really is a natural, isn’t she?”

Daine nodded, “She understands dragons so well, I sometimes wonder whether they brought her up rather than Numair and I.”

Captain Harcourt chuckled, then ran to the door of the breeding pavilion.

“Captain!” she shouted and Linnet jumped, then turned in surprise.

“Yes?”

“Welcome to the Corps. It’ll be an honour to serve with you!”

Captain Harcourt’s hand flew up to her brow in a salute as the last word left her lips. For a moment, Linnet stood, stunned, but then a slow grin began to blossom on her face, one that grew and grew until she was positively beaming.

“Likewise, Captain Harcourt!” she shouted back, returning the salute, before skipping away, radiant with the glow of the golden future that was unfurling before her like a stream of pennants in a brisk summer breeze.

 


End file.
